


beatmatching b2b

by fiordilatte



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Blow Jobs, DJ Lance, M/M, One Night Stands, Power Bottom Keith (Voltron), Quickies, Sloppy Makeouts, Vaporwave Pidge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 02:45:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12448050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiordilatte/pseuds/fiordilatte
Summary: Given the opportunity, Keith is pretty sure he’d suck this DJ off.  (In other news, Keith and Pidge go to a concert!  Hell yeah.)





	beatmatching b2b

**Author's Note:**

> brought to you by Ableton Live and Adobe Audition, yay sound design!  
> mood: [that new Oliver album ](https://soundcloud.com/weareoliver/sets/full-circle-46)

Keith is sexually repressed and he needs a cigarette.  

He’s three drinks in and not particularly in the mood for dancing (“Why do you even come to these things?” Pidge asks him, knowing full well he only goes to keep an eye out on her), so he’s just standing mutely in the pit with a bottle in one hand, Pidge’s backpack in the other.  They’ve been waiting two hours for this set, and Keith has been subjected to three terrible opening acts.

They’re waiting on a final intermission now, and they’re stationed front and centre, right by the amps.  Pidge is leaning up against the edge of the stage, which is only elevated by a couple feet, so she has a good unobstructed view of the technicians rolling equipment on for sound check.  For the past few minutes, she’s been attempting to explain all the parts to Keith, who is pretty hopeless at this sort of thing.  There’s a big table with various electronic equipment laid out on it, all of which is hooked up to a laptop with wires and cables streaming out from it like some kind of weird, futuristic octopus.  Keith’s description, not Pidge’s.  A microphone and keyboard sit off to one side of the DJ’s table, and at the back of the stage is a big projection screen that slowly pulses the Blue Paladin’s logo of a sapphire lion.  

“Did you know he sent a pizza into space for one of his music videos?” Pidge informs him, while lo-fi drum and bass blares over the speakers.  She pokes a straw into her mouth and sips on her gin and tonic, bouncing on the balls of her feet.  Sip, sip, bounce.

“I can’t believe this guy is your favourite,” Keith snorts.  “So where are his turntables?  He’s a DJ, right?”

“His gear is all digital, dude!” Pidge sticks her tongue out at him.  “I mean, I guess he’s got a mixing deck, but I’m way too young for analog.”  

“You god damn millennial,” he says.  Cue eye-roll.

Spending Tuesday night in a dingy basement nightclub with Pidge is certainly one way to test the strength of friendship - Keith just keeps waiting for the tinnitus to kick in.  He’s already made several back and forth trips to the bar to retrieve liquor and guide Pidge on her journey toward getting wasted.  Findings so far:  the kid is a heavyweight.

Sometimes Keith plays the part of cool big brother who takes Pidge out clubbing because Jesus this kid needs to get outside.  If it’s for a concert headlined by her favourite indie artist, and it happens to be held at a seedy underground 21+ club in the next city over, fine.  He’ll take her eighteen year old ass to the show, and they’ll get there on his bike and give no fucks.  Matt always gives him shit for it when he finds out, but Pidge is easily smarter than all the people in this room combined and can probably construct a bomb with ingredients found from the bar, so she’s pretty capable of taking care of herself.  He isn’t worried.

Besides, if it gets really bad, Keith will just beat everyone up.

As the crowd begins to fill in, he hears an unfamiliar nasal voice pipe up from behind them:  “Can you guys move?”

“Sorry, we’ve been waiting in this spot for two hours,” Pidge says apologetically.  “And I’m short so - oh, come on!”

“Hey,” he interjects, when he spots the group of latecomers jostling Pidge and trying to push their way into her spot.  Reacting instinctively, Keith slams his elbow into the closest offender, refusing to let him take another step.  He doesn’t budge, elbow firmly planted into the other guy’s side, thinking he and his friends might take the hint and not be total dicks.  

“ _Excuse_ me,” one of them says, in a tone that implies that he’s the one being wronged.  It’s enough to get on Keith’s nerves.  These stupid hipsters.

Keith holds his ground, always ready for a fight.  “She was there first.  Fuck.  Off.”  He plays it up with an angry glare, not afraid to intimidate the others.  He’s all tight muscle with a limber frame, coiled and ready to spring.  Pidge’s favourite nickname for him is ‘Concentrated Dark Matter,’ because he’s angsty and he hits hard.  

The other concert-goers grumble a few choice passive aggressive statements, but fall back warily, keeping a safe distance from Pidge’s Keith-instated bubble.  He couldn’t give two shits what they think of him, but Pidge is going to get her spot in the front or else.  Touch her again and they die.  If the bike shop closes down maybe he’ll become a bouncer and fight punks for a living.  God, he hates people.

He grabs Pidge’s hand and pulls her close, making sure she’s still steady on her feet.  “You good dude?”  

“Never been better, thanks,” she responds, shouting so her voice doesn’t get drowned out by the crowd’s rising volume.  “You’d make a good bodyguard.  I’d pay you in bitcoin if I was a multimillionaire.”  

“I just want you to have a good time,” he says, with a noncommittal shrug.  He can’t let stupid people fuck it up for her, and he sure as hell can’t let her get upset enough to take matters into her own unlawful hands.  Keith and Pidge always run through the motions of (barely) good behaviour, but they both know she’s totally unfazed and planning a DDoS attack right now like a ruthless sociopath.  He gives her clammy hand a final squeeze. “Enjoy your dumb Latin house DJ.”  What kind of name is the _Blue Paladin_ , anyway?

Lights flash, the crowd screams, and a slender figure slips into view.  This guy’s probably not going to be selling out stadiums any time soon, but the crowd’s energy shifts instantly when he takes to the stage with his opening song.  Colourful animations fill the backdrop, all seamlessly timed in sync to the music, while bright lights move over the stage.  The music is so loud that the bass vibrates right through Keith’s body and thumps along to the beat of his heart.  Pidge lights up from next to him, standing on her tiptoes to get as close to her idol as humanly possible.  A sideways glance at her shows that she can’t stop smiling.

Pidge yells, “That’s the coolest MIDI controller I’ve ever seen!  I wish I’d built it.”  She sways gently on her tiptoes, throwing her hands up in the air as chunky plastic bracelets jangle down her arms.  Pidge made a bracelet for him too, a bright red and green arrangement of pony beads with alphabet cubes in the middle that spell out ‘K-E-I-T-H-:)’ - complete with the smiley face.  She even put programmable lights inside; Keith humoured her at the beginning and is now committed to wearing it for the rest of the night.  

He says, “Sure, Pidge,” while gazing off into the overhead lights and hoping he’s not exuding too much thirst.  It’s difficult to pull off, but looking like an angry biker _is_ one of his specialties.  He does his best to appear unimpressed and stoic even as his eyes keep locking on to the boy on stage.  He might be buying into the hype here.

Glowsticks and neon paraphernalia abound, while the pervasive smell of bad weed floats through the packed room.  They’re surrounded by a sea of people - drunk girls in short sequined skirts, hipsters in plaid drinking shitty beer and dropping acid tabs.  It’s almost enough to make him feel claustrophobic.  Body glitter and LED lights are everywhere, sewn into jacket linings and blinking in the soles of canvas sneakers.  Pidge fits right in, decked out in her robot leggings and oversized BLVE PΛLΛDIN vaporwave hoodie, her normally untameable mass of sandy curls tied up in a side ponytail.  A pair of green glowsticks peeks out from her hair like alien antennae; _Greetings humans, I’m a Pidgeon and I like raves._

This DJ is definitely more hands-on than his opening acts were, twisting knobs and pressing buttons in a swirling, colourful frenzy.  Granted, Keith’s not sure what any of that shit means, but it’s nice to watch him move.  He’s got a look of pure concentration on his face, and shows a true passion for his craft.  It’s easy to tell that he enjoys performing, from the smile on his lips to the way his whole body moves along with the beat.  He’s cute, from what Keith can see.  Dark, angular face framed by bright overhead lights.  Perfectly gelled, glossy brown hair.  He’s got toned arms under his blue baseball tee, the shirt clinging to him like a wet dream, and a tight little body to go with those lean limbs.  There are a few of those beaded bracelets on his arms, too - god damn it, there really is no escape.

The Blue Paladin grabs the mic to introduce himself, setting his music to fade for a beat.  “Hey Altea!” he greets, to a chorus of cheers.  “This is my first headlining tour, and I’m so excited to be here!”

Keith watches the Blue Paladin jump to the music, working the crowd into a frenzy with each song.  He’s uninhibitedly and unabashedly himself, and that’s what makes him shine.  He integrates mashups into his own music, playing a mix of tracks that has the crowd moving and screaming along.  Keith recognizes maybe two of the songs, some top 40 radio noise that he hears on the radio at the gym.  The technique is pretty good, though - according to Pidge, local vaporwave expert.  The transitions are smooth and clean, tempos synced up beat for beat.  

Given the opportunity, Keith is pretty sure he’d suck this DJ off.  He’d love to get that lithe body right beneath him.  Hear that chirpy voice whimper his name in the dark, make him pull sharp breaths in through his teeth and _hiss_ when he cums.  

“This is a brand new song that I just finished mastering,” the Blue Paladin announces, taking a sip of water.  He’s getting sweaty, worked up, but his energy hasn’t dropped in the slightest.  “It’s a collaboration I did with my friend Allura!”

“Oh shit,” says Pidge, with an extra bounce to her steps as the song drops.  Her jaw falls open.  “Oh _damn._ Did you know that he used to open for her before?  I’m... I’m so proud.”  

The DJ’s fingers are impossibly fast on the... whatever the fuck that one instrument is called, gliding with practiced ease over a complicated array of buttons, knobs, and sliders.  Why are there so many buttons, Keith wonders.  

Pidge goes on to ramble about things like production quality and sidechains and _holy quiznak are you hearing these snares_ while Keith nods and sips his beer, still not really understanding.  It just kind of sounds like noise to him, blurs together in a blend of sugary synthpop and whirling strobelights.  He isn’t big on technology; he knows how motorcycles work and that’s about it.  Pidge makes fun of him for it on the daily, whether he’s struggling with his smartphone or trying to run the spreadsheet macros that Matt writes for him.  Maybe he’s a little old fashioned for his age, technologically illiterate, but sometimes being boring is better than trying too hard to be special.  

Still, Pidge is happy and Keith’s pleasant X-rated thoughts are temporarily dulled by heavy basslines and booze, so this is okay for now.  

Being stuck in a vaporwave moshpit isn’t one of his favourite experiences, but it’s strangely cathartic to feel every note vibrate through his body.  Hundreds of pairs of feet hit the sticky floor in unison, vibrating all the way into the building’s structure. _Boom-thud-stomp._

As his last song comes to an end, the Blue Paladin leaps onto the table, happy to be the centre of attention.  Sweat glistens on his forehead and shows in a damp patch on his collar.  The brunet scans the crowd, seeming to stare straight at Keith and his stoic face, and flashes him a pearly white smile.  He’s probably wondering why Keith doesn’t appear to have a soul, which is fair enough in the realm of bored-looking Korean guys who stand around at the front row of concerts for no discernible reason.

“Thank you so much!” the DJ says, pressing his palms together and bowing his head as he brings his set to a close.  The lights go dark, and he exits the stage in a burst of confetti.

Thank god it’s over, Keith thinks.  “Ready to go?” he asks his friend, gesturing hopefully toward the exit.

But the crowd’s already starting up a chant for the Blue Paladin to play an encore, and Pidge just shoots him a shit-stirring grin while she adjusts her glasses.  “Dude.  That’s not how concerts work at all!”

He shrugs, his relief disappointingly short-lived.  “It was worth a try.”

Sure enough, the DJ rushes back on stage, headphones hanging loosely around his neck, and waves sheepishly at the screaming crowd.  “Uhh.  I seriously don’t have anything planned for this,” he says into the mic, with a surprised little laugh.  He leans over his laptop, squinting at the screen as he decides what song to put on.  “You guys are so fucking awesome.  Let’s see what we can do....”

He ends up playing Pidge’s favourite song for his encore (Keith only knows this because she played it on loop for almost the entire duration of the ride to the club).  It starts with a quiet piano riff, then transforms into a duet between two synthesized voices against a sleek, glittery soundscape.  In other words, it’s a love song about androids, and of course Pidge has all the lyrics memorized.

“Yeah, you guys know this one,” the Blue Paladin declares, a mischievous grin on his face as the crowd erupts into screams of recognition.

Lights continue to dance on the screen and across the stage in dizzying, seizure-inducing arrays, swirling neon kaleidoscopes that burn into Keith’s retinas and play back in orange afterimages every time he blinks.  When the song finishes, the DJ reaches out to high-five his audience, running along the edge of the stage with his hands outstretched.  Keith feels the Blue Paladin’s fingers brush against his, lingering for just a little too long, and squeezing just a little too tight.

The DJ smiles brightly, adding in an audacious little wink for him.  Keith thinks he’d like to suckerpunch this guy in his pretty face, then fuck him senseless right after and call it a night.  He doesn’t even like his music that much.  He’s just interested in those fingers.

Pidge nudges him in the ribs and grins up at him as the lights come back on.  “Thanks for coming with me,” she whispers.

Damn it, Keith thinks, staring at the gently fluttering confetti, now they _have_ to go get pictures with him.

* * *

The afterparty is a loud, obnoxious, red plastic cup affair.  They do their best to blend in, wrists still adorned with glow-in-the-dark kandi, and surreptitiously stroll through the club doors at three AM like they own the place.  At check-in, they flash their IDs - Keith’s motorcycle license, Pidge’s meticulously crafted fake firearms permit.

“No drugs,” he mutters to his friend.  “And that’s all the parental advice I’m obligated to give you.”  If Pidge does drugs (which she won’t), he’ll have to tell Shiro, who will tell Matt, who will kill Keith.  He may be a hermit crab but he doesn’t want to die at the hands of Matt Holt.

“Drop beats, not acid,” Pidge recites sagely.

Keith nods.  “Good,” he grunts.

Some of the local openers are DJing back to back wind-down sets while the Blue Paladin does meet and greets, and Pidge is determined to get her one-on-one experience.  “There he is!” she whisper-yells, beelining for a crowd in the middle of the club.  

“Is this everything you hoped it would be and more?” he deadpans, jogging to keep up.  Pidge laughs, but her smile is so sincere that he feels something tug at heartstrings that he didn’t even know existed.  For fuck’s sake.  As they queue up in line, he takes the opportunity to check the Blue Paladin out in proper lighting, and finds himself more than a little mesmerized.  He’s lean, lanky.  Long legs squeezed into blue jeans.  Nice.  Keith likes tall guys.  He takes in those high cheekbones, the solid jawline, the full lips and the carefully styled hair that hasn’t moved a millimetre since his set started.  

Yeah, Keith definitely wants to ruin him.  

He snaps at least four pictures of Pidge with her arm around the Blue Paladin’s waist, a grin stretching from ear to ear on her freckled face.  He watches quietly as she pulls the DJ into a hug and they rattle on about all manner of audio workstations and sample loops.  God, is she talking about VST plugins again?  Oh well.  He’s just an observer waiting off to the side, brooding and emo -

“Hi there!  Enjoy the show?”

Keith starts, his body stiffening in horror at the realization that he’s been caught staring.  “I... I’m just her ride for tonight,” he says after a moment, gesturing to Pidge and trying to be offhand.  “Uh, do you want to trade bracelets?”  Apparently this is a thing that people do at EDM concerts.   

“Yeah sure, let’s do it.”  The brunet angles his head to glance at Keith’s wrist.  “Take it your name’s... Keith?  But maybe without the smiley face.”  His voice is sugar-sweet and irresistible, and Keith feels his throat go dry.

He nods, wordlessly, as the other boy slides a sparkly blue bracelet off his wrist and slips it onto Keith’s own.  The lettering on it spells ‘M-E-O-W.’  What a dork, he thinks.  And the things he’d do to him....

“I’m Lance, by the way,” the DJ offers, his bright blue eyes meeting Keith’s dark ones.  “I was just saying to Pidge that I saw you guys in the front row,” he adds eagerly, pulling Keith’s bracelet over his own wrist to complete their trade.  “Thanks for coming tonight, it really means a lot!”

Pidge beams at her idol, stumbles through an excited babble of thank yous, and pulls Keith onto the dancefloor, telling him it’s his duty as her best friend to figure out this moshpit business with her.  One, two, three:  four on the floor.

* * *

It’s nearly three in the morning when Keith decides he doesn’t feel like leaving well enough alone.  He’s never been rational that way.  It’s one of the reasons why he dropped out of school.  

In the spirit of time management, Keith figures he can leave Pidge unsupervised for fifteen minutes before she starts up her illegal science experiments.  In and out.  Walking his fingers along the countertop, feeling a little shady but plenty horny, he takes confident, almost predatory strides toward the lanky figure waiting by the bar.

“Hey,” he drawls, six drinks in and purposeful.  There’s a buzz in his fingertips, but he knows what he wants and he doesn’t need to use any lines to get it.  And if this doesn’t work out, he’ll just drop Pidge off, go home, light up a cigarette, and get some much needed sleep.  Nothing to lose here.  Lance is just a guy to him.  Not a musical idol, not a vaporwave fashion icon.  Just a guy.

Lance has his fingers laced around the stem of a cocktail glass, and he’s got a faraway look in his eyes.  “Can I help you?” the DJ asks innocently, but Keith sees the smirk playing at his lips and he wants to push for more.

He leans in, dangerously close, taking in the scent of cologne and sweat.  “Yeah, I think you you can.”

“You know, I’ve been waiting for you to hit on me for like, the last hour,” Lance says.  The surface is still casual, unruffled.

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” Keith retorts, rolling his eyes.  But he grins, showing some teeth.  He’s still game.  “So what’re you drinking?”

“A creamsicle,” the brunet says.  A girly drink, but that’s okay.  Lance takes a long, unapologetic sip of his drink until there’s just ice left.  “I like sweet things.  So...” he lifts an eyebrow, “you wanna come with me?  Check out the VIP lounge?”

He follows Lance into the back of the club, like a fucking groupie, knocking back the last of his beer as they slink down the hall like guilty teenagers.  “In here,” Lance orders, throwing open a door and ushering him inside.  The air in the back room is stale and dusty, and there’s an overhanging smell of cigarette smoke and cheap booze, but it’ll do for now.  It’s dark and cramped in here, but there’s not a lot of time for them to take in the sights anyway.

Lance is on him the instant the door slams shut, and they kiss, sloppy and stupid from alcohol.  Keith’s back is up against the peeling wallpaper and he’s got one hand on Lance’s waist while he palms his chest with the other, feeling well-defined muscle underneath that baseball shirt.  

“Not bad for a guy who pushes buttons all day,” he observes dryly.  

“Okay dude, now you’re just pushing _my_ buttons.”  The brunet grabs Keith by the wrists and pins him to the wall, pressing sticky kisses to his neck as a growing erection nudges against his groin.  “You know,” Lance murmurs into his ear, “there’s something annoyingly hot about the fact that you have no interest in my music, and I... I need to get a reaction out of you before I leave.  Like...” he groans, “like I have to impress you or I’m a failure.”  He runs his teeth along Keith’s earlobe, nibbling just long enough to elicit a low moan.  

“You care too much about what people think,” he says.  “Stop caring and you’ll be fine.  That’s what I do.”  

Lance reaches to flick a light switch on, then his hands are cupping Keith’s tight ass and his mouth is locked to his lips again.  Ears still ringing from four hours of high-decibel dance music, Keith can’t tell if he’s going deaf or if he’s just tipsy and overeager.  But he can feel his pulse quickening, can almost hear the blood rushing through his veins.

Muffled house music drifts through the door, and they grind to the beat, Lance leading for the time being.  And fuck, he really is good, dextrous hands slipping under his shirt, fingers flicking over his stiff nipples, making Keith shudder and gasp.  Lance places a thumb on his chin and pulls him in close for a deeper kiss, nibbling lightly on Keith’s lower lip and pushing his tongue into his mouth.  Maybe he’s overly sensitive because of the adrenaline and the fact that it’s late and he needs nicotine, but Keith swears kissing has never made him this hard.  Not in a long time.  Heat pools in his belly, and he feels frantic, restless.

“I’m gonna be honest,” Lance says, breathless.  He pulls back slightly.  “I have to be back on the road in like, forty minutes.  Our schedule is insane and my manager is going to kill me if I’m late.  Besides, I don’t wanna be a jerk producer who takes advantage of someone after a show then just leaves, right?”  He’s got a cute little blush on his olive skin, almost as if he’s shy.  “So, uh, it’s fine if you want to stop, but you need to tell me now.”  

Keith’s a straight shooter, cuts to the chase and lays it out crystal clear.  “Just give me ten minutes.”  He’s probably going to regret this in the five hours that exist between now and his next shift at work, but he doesn’t think about it too much.  No way he’s going to let this guy back out now.  He nudges his pelvis into Lance, closing the gap so they’re flush against each other.  “That’s all it’s going to take.”

Lance sputters, straddling the line between being insulted and impressed.  “I mean... well... I’ll take the L if you can prove it,” he challenges, taking a seat at the cushioned bench with his legs slightly apart.  He’s definitely hard, and he wants Keith to see.  “Which you totally can’t!”  Lance’s blue eyes burn into Keith, and he can feel the other boy’s heated gaze on his body.  

He smirks, confident.  “Sure I can.”  His knees hit the floor, and the gloves come off not long after.  High velocity.  Keith wants that cock in his mouth, bad.  

Lance traces his long, pretty fingers along Keith’s lips and jaw, the bracelet from earlier still hanging off his slender wrist, where it blinks red and green LEDs.  He’s got clean, neatly trimmed nails and surprisingly soft skin, and Keith has no qualms with poking his tongue out to get a taste.  He wonders how it would feel to have those fingers sliding into his ass, wedged in tight and knuckle-deep.  Catching on, Lance slowly pushes one finger into his mouth, followed by two more.   

Emboldened, Keith curls his tongue around the soft pads of Lance’s fingers, sucking on each digit carefully, showing him exactly what he’s planning to do when they get to the real thing.  It’s a messy arrangement, sloppy and wet, saliva spilling over Lance’s fingers and dripping down Keith’s chin.  

“Holy shit,” Lance breathes.

“You want to see me covered in cum, don’t you?” he asks, palming Lance’s erection through his jeans and watching him squirm.  “Better show me that cock.”  Keith is not a patient man.

Lance shakily undoes his zipper, and Keith sees that there’s already a damp patch of precum on his underwear.  Just to be bold, he licks him through the thin layer of fabric, and breathes in his scent - a warm mixture of cologne and his own unique musk.  He smells so fucking good it’s _stupid_.  

That’s a nice looking cock, Keith thinks, as he pulls Lance’s dick free from his Calvin Kleins.  Damn it.  If he’d planned better he would have had this thing crammed into his ass right now.  Keith wants to ride this stranger just like he rides his bikes.  Hard and fast and absolutely relentless.  He’d let this guy bend him over a table and fuck him hard, push that cock into him and just - use him.  Christ.  He thinks of how it would feel to have that cock slamming into him, have that delicious friction pistoning in his ass while his hands are splayed against the wall.  

Fuck, fuck, fuck - Keith really needs to work on his vocabulary.

“You do this often?” the other boy says, groaning as Keith wraps a hand around his erection.  “Ahh...”

“What, fuck DJs in back rooms?” he asks, sitting back on his heels.

“Yeah, I guess.”  

Lance laughs, and Keith’s mouth waters.  He can’t contain himself.  He’s sucked a lot of cocks, but he doesn’t go looking in places like these.  He’s boring, drinks and smokes too much.  Works soul-crushing hours at a bike shop and is a bit of a pyro.  But damn it, he likes sex.  He likes sucking cock, loves that tight control he can hold over another man with just his mouth.  It’s a hot, quick little power play, all fire and no brakes.  

“Not really,” Keith answers, staring a little too hungrily, “but I guess I’m going to right now.  So you can be the first.”  Keith’s going to be the best damn lay this guy has ever had.  

He strokes Lance’s cock with his hand, feeling his length, then brings it up to his face to rub the spongy head against his cheek.  Keith skims his lips against the surface and lazily flicks his tongue across the tip, tasting a hint of precum.  

“I thought about doing this to you the whole time you were on stage...” he murmurs, dark eyes gleaming.  He’s deliberate with his movements, using only his mouth to tease the other boy’s erection as he drags his wet tongue along the underside.  

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Lance chokes out.  Sharp inhale, shuddering exhale.  Like he’s being tortured.  “That is so not fair.”

Keith massages the head with his lips, sucking on the first inch and its sensitive bundle of nerves.  Lance tastes good - salty but musky, one of those combinations that drives him insane.  God, his legs are perfect too, long and lean and gorgeous.  Flawless summer tan lines.  Keith’s always thought DJs didn’t get out much and stayed locked up in their basement studios, never seeing the light of day, but clearly this is not the case.  Mm.  Closing his eyes reverently, he places his hands on those toned thighs, stroking smooth supple skin with his rough fingertips as he sucks Lance off.  

“Oh god Keith, you look so fucking hot with your mouth on my cock.”

Keith moans his assent, sucking as if his life depends on it.  He’s dripping lust, cock twitching in his pants.  Can’t stop reacting to the way Lance is touching him, with those fingers tangled in his messy black hair and tugging hard.

He comes up for a breath, letting Lance’s cock slide out of his mouth with a wet pop.  “Want to fuck my face?” he whispers, licking his lips.  Keith yanks his shirt off, tired of the sweat gathering at the collar and nape of his neck, and shows off his pale skin and muscled chest.  He hears it rip at the seams, but decides he doesn’t give a shit.

“Kind of, yeah,” the other boy admits.  “Kind of a lot.”  His cheeks are scarlet and his knuckles are tipped white.  “Though, you know, I’m more used to being the one on my knees.”

“Doesn’t matter to me,” Keith says, cupping Lance’s balls in his hands then swiping his tongue there too.  He plants quick kisses up Lance’s inner thighs, brushing his lips against smooth olive skin before engulfing his cock again.  Bobbing his head slowly along the length, Keith takes him in as deep as he’ll go, feeling that hard cock just tickling the back of his throat.  Lance rolls his hips forward, doing half-thrusts into Keith’s waiting mouth.  Nice and easy.  

“You’re beautiful,” the brunet blurts - and Keith is almost inclined to remark that most people don’t say that kind of shit when they have their dick rammed down someone’s throat, except he can’t exactly talk right now due to that very fact.

Instead, he focuses on pleasuring Lance, humming to put a steady vibration on his cock, listening to him moan and gasp and whine - _that’s it, baby, you’re doing so good, Keith._ It's so much easier to do it with a stranger, when there are no commitments and no strings attached.  In relationships, he always falls into constraining expectations and petty arguments.  But this, the we’ve-just-met, no holds barred, pent up release of explosive energy is what really makes it for Keith.  Nothing to hide, no pretenses or empty promises.  Just testing the waters and running on instinct.  Quick and dirty.

Here they’re still figuring out each other's bodies; every inch of skin is brand new territory and he doesn't have to play along with someone else’s needs or think about what other people want.  Keith can be perfectly selfish.  Every touch is fucking electric, sending shivers up and down his spine, making his skin tremble in anticipation.  

“Think you can handle this?” he whispers.  

“Probably not,” Lance admits.  He’s breathing in syncopated gasps now, completely off-rhythm; it’s funny how even a poised musician can lose his sense of the beat sometimes.  

Keith shifts gears, ramping up to go faster.  Not much time left.  He takes him in - all of him, lips smoothly sliding down to the base.  He exaggerates the gagging a bit, noticing that it gets Lance even harder.  So that’s how it is.  Keith’s got to help that cute little ego along, make it cum.  

“Nnh, that’s so good, baby.”

He’ll never admit it, of course, but Keith nearly cums just from being called that.  The words go straight to his cock.  It’s only a blowjob, but his erection is bursting in his pants and he feels delirious off of the other boy’s smooth voice.  He moans, mouth full, face buried in Lance’s crotch.  

“Shit!  Keith!”  A strangled warning.  High-pitched and needy.

He doubles down, sucking relentlessly until Lance whimpers and his muscles go taut.  Keith swallows, his knees aching on the cheap carpet, cum leaking out the sides of his mouth.  Then he licks the length of that messy cock and looks Lance squarely in the eye, ragged breaths tearing from his throat as he thinks of all the fucked up shit he’d do to this guy if they had more time.  

“Oh my god,” Lance says, after a brief, stunned silence.  He drags a hand through his thick hair.  “Oh my god you are so good, and I am so dead.”

Keith staggers to his feet, pins and needles running through his legs.  “Hey Lance,” he mutters, finally saying the other boy’s name.  He yanks his gloves on, trying to ignore the dizzy sensation and the obvious redness in his face.  “Uh...” he racks his hazy brain, thoughts flashing to what Pidge said earlier, “I wanted to know... the name of the instrument... with the buttons.”  

There’s that stupid smile again.  It makes Keith’s stomach do a dumb little flip.  “ _All_ of my things have buttons, dude.  I think you mean my MIDI controller?  It’s a Voltron Pro that I modded.  It combines with other controllers so I can do these, like, mega light shows.  Well, when I can afford to have more than one.”  Lance grins at him, wiggling his fingers in the air to emulate lights.

“I’m not that good with tech,” he adds, tugging his holey shirt back on.

“Well maybe I’ll teach you on my next tour, when I get super famous.  And then I’ll actually get to see you cum.”  

“If there’s a next time I’m gonna make sure I fuck you properly,” he says, as if he’s ever going to see this guy again.  A wry smile.  “Any position you want.”  Because Keith can play both sides.  He brushes his hair out of his eyes and frowns, not sure what to do now in this weird, entirely-too-sincere aftermath where the clothes are back on and feelings and logic come up to surface.

“Yeah, we can do that too.”  

Lance pulls him into a quiet kiss, not seeming to care about the cum on his lips or the fact that Keith is a grungy, messy-haired nobody.  He’s tender, almost loving, doesn’t try to be anything he’s not - and Keith is too afraid to kiss him back and ruin it, because he doesn’t know how to be soft.  He only has one speed.  

“But I really do have to go,” Lance says ruefully.  “I left my number in your back pocket, okay?!”  And the Blue Paladin is just another hopeful DJ again, slipping back into his life of playing dive bar tours and chasing fame while Keith is left wondering what kind of ass-groping fuckery just happened for him to not have noticed.

* * *

Keith bursts out from the back room, looking about as presentable as he can on his walk of shame, the telltale smell of sex clinging to his skin.  There are a couple curious stares directed at him, but Keith shrugs it off and goes to the bar to retrieve his underage charge, who is drunkenly engineering a crossbow out of discarded glowsticks and perler beads.  Better put an end to that now.  

“Time to go home, Pidgeon,” he says, hopping onto a rickety barstool and resting his elbows on the table.  He slings an arm around her shoulder in a rare showing of fondness.  “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah, it was lit,” Pidge replies, turning so she can shoot him a toothy grin.  A fresh sleeve of neon bracelets encases her entire forearm, exactly two of every colour.  “You seem happy too.”  Drunk and still sharp as a knife.

Keith plucks the crossbow out of her hands and tucks it into his utility belt for safekeeping - they might need it for the road later.  He affectionately slams a motorcycle helmet onto Pidge’s head, making her look like a tiny third member of Daft Punk, and they make their way to the door.  “Also,” he adds, for the sake of being open, “I think I’m going to fuck all of your favourite musicians.”


End file.
